Ondolindë
by Live.Laugh.Love.Listen.Music
Summary: This is a tale, a tale of loss, of sorrow, of joy, of love, of grief, of happiness, of betrayal, of loyalty, of tragedy, of bravery, of pain. This is a tale of the fabled hidden city with seven names: this is a tale of Gondolin. Co-written with CrackersAndProudOfIt.
1. Thorondor and Turgon

**L.L.L.L.M: As the summary suggests, this fic is an account of Gondolin. It spans from the fall of Fingolfin to the fall of the city itself. It is told from a variety of different perspectives, with two characters per chapter. The fic is co-written, by myself and the amazing CrackinAndProudOfIt. I wrote a few paragraphs, then Crackers did, then I did... etc.**

_**Crackers: ...which explains why you'll hit a bad spot every few paragraphs- those'll be mine. :] At any rate, comments and feedback are much appreciated! But now I'll be quiet and let you read: we hope you'll enjoy!**_

Thorondor

The sky is limitless as it stretches out on all sides of me, endless, untouchable even by the vile taint of the dark king. The air at such heights is clear and cold, though the temperature's icy fingers do not bother me. I enjoy the strain of my flying-muscles as my wings drive me north towards the shadowed fortress of Angband.

My Lord's words echo in my mind. I must travel with great haste northwards to the black fortress, to try to stop the folly of the eldest son of Indis. His despair must be great to even consider duelling Morgoth. The dark lord is a Vala fallen from grace, and his power is strong. Nolofinwë, though the High King of the Noldor in exile and one of the most powerful elf warriors the Almighty One created, is but an elf. He will be crushed under the tide of Morgoth's wrath.

White clouds turn grey then black as I approach my destination and my eyes perceive the three peaks of Thangorodrim piercing the underbelly of the clouds. The foul fumes expelled from the fortress pollute the air: a bitter taste is in my mouth. I wish with all my heart to fly away to the clear air of the south, but the trust my Lord has in me keeps me on my path.

A great scream can be heard, piercing the firmament, echoing to set the earth below trembling; it is the seventh of its kind that this fell day has brought to my attentive ears. I increase my speed at the sound of it, beating my vast pinions with an intensity seldom required of any bird of prey. What has caused that hideous cry, I do not know, but what is clear to my mind is that the king's challenge was taken up.

Faster and faster I fly, until the sound of my own feathers against the fierce wind rushes in my ears. Over the thrice-cursed peaks my road leads me, but even at my current velocity I fear I have not been quick enough, for no more cries are heard. This token bodes well neither way: if they belonged to Morgoth, he has not been hit again, if to Nolofinwë, he has been silenced.

At seemingly long last, Thangorodrim lies behind me, and I begin descent from my great altitude to examine the fight outside Angband's gates. A great sable cloud has ominously blocked my view of the ground below, but plunging through its choking shadows, to my farseeing eyes is revealed a harrowing scene.

Sorrow strikes my heart; for all the haste I have put into this grave journey, I am too late. The duel is finished, with the result I had foreseen with such regret. There he lies, Nolofinwë the Valiant, High King of the Noldor in exile, held in place under the black foot of Morgoth. Yet he has not passed: I can see his body struggling and the pain on his face. I beat my wings ever faster. There is still hope that he might be saved from a fate no Elda should suffer.

Morgoth is speaking; his words come from a face bearing seven great wounds. Though spoken in the Black Tongue, his words are still understandable. He mocks Nolofinwë, ridicules his attempts to take on himself, the true master of Beleriand, Middle Earth and all of its peoples. His words of bravado seek to hide his true emotions: shock at being challenged and maimed, and the flash of fear that had pierced him momentarily, that this valiant young Elda could have actually killed him. His words, distracting him from emotions, also serve the duty to distract him from the movements of the body crushed below his foot: Nolofinwë reaches for his fallen sword.

Morgoth begins to grind his foot down, crushing the once-beautiful body into the dust. Nolofinwë's cry of pure agony pierces my ears, followed by the monstrous sound of the Black King's laughter. Then; in a movement of desperation, using the last strength held in his broken body, the son of Indis slashes his sword, slicing open Morgoth's foot. The Dark Lord reels in pain as Fingolfin's fëa flees his body.

Black blood gushes steaming from Morgoth's eighth wound. Out it flows, filling the chasms only just formed by the contact of Hell's hammer with the tortured earth and covering the still chest of the king in its hideous venom. Two proud lords, humbled beyond reach of deepest fear, I see below me: one gone where dignity no longer is of account, the other left furious and humiliated in the land of the living- if Angband deserves such a name.

Despite his disfiguring wounds, my altitude, and his failed attempts at hiding it, evident on Morgoth's countenance is the incomparable wrath of one whose boasts have proved empty and whose nightmares have just barely been kept from fruition. From the pits below, the abode of innumerable thralls and vassals imprisoned sadly to toil in Angband's black depths, no sound is heard. Watching, waiting are Morgoth's servants; at their lord's command alone will they celebrate the apparent victory.

Morgoth bends, stooping to lift Fingolfin's empty hröa with both hands. More sable blood leaks onto the king's corpse, but despite his wounds, the Dark Lord laughs, a contained, mirthless sound that I know would be inaudible to me were I not so rapidly nearing him. And then he pulls. The hue he bears is like his noble kindred's in stature, no taller, appearing to be no stronger, but this latter assumption is soon proved false. The muscles beneath that ebony armour must be great indeed, for to my lasting horror, I behold a sight which my clear vision will ever curse. Nolofinwë is torn in two.

Bile rises in my throat at the sight. Foul indeed is Belegurth that he dishonours the body of his fallen challenger in such a way. The dead should be honoured, not mutilated in the abhorrent manner Morgoth has demonstrated. Red blood seeps from the broken halves of Nolofinwë, red as the mist descending over my eyes. I have failed my Lord. I have failed Nolofinwë. He is dead; his body broken. My Lord's trust in me has been broken; the shame courses through me almost as strongly as the fury. Recovering Nolofinwë's body and seeing he receives a suitable farewell is my task now.

Morgoth has noticed me, his pit-less black eyes focused on my form in something almost like amusement. He shows no apprehension at the velocity of my approach.

"Greetings, little birdie. Have you a message from my thrice-cursed brother Manwe, or do you seek to feast upon the corpse of this foolish Firstborn like a carrion crow?"

His words only act upon my fury as oil to fire; it explodes within me, burning white bright and red hot. I extend my talons and release a piercing battle cry, soaring towards his maimed face, noticing how his eyes widen at my sudden attack. Perfect. I dive, swerving at the last moment so my extended talons scrape along the unprotected flesh of his eyeballs. Morgoth howls in pain, dropping the corpse halves to clumsily rub at his maimed face. The wounds will heal, for I have not the power to permanently wound a Vala, though for the sake of the one whose corpse halves I carefully capture in my claws I wish I could.

The empty hröa of Nolofinwë seems to weigh nothing as it rests in my talons. Gently I carry him, so as not to further rend the once-proud flesh. Up I bear him, rising higher and higher while Morgoth's curses echo harmlessly off the surrounding rocks, the immense mounds of slag, the black mountains' adamant faces. With the wind in my face I break through the layers of clouds once more and find myself soaring once more above Angband's shadowy mist.

The sky around me is blue once more, and cold but clear the fresh wind that urges my flight westward. Untainted, established, permanent, are the heavens; no refuge like the firmament remains in the Hither Lands. I inhale, a deep draught of pure air fills my lungs, and I simply glide. No urgency remains in my quest now, and I take my leisure traveling the one place in all the world where darkness can never follow me. No matter how high rise Morgoth's fumes of ash and clouds of smoke, how loud the echoing lamentations inescapable sprung from his works, there will always be sky above, somewhere, without stain, without grief, without shadow: free.

Such thoughts flit through my mind, light and careless as the air beneath my wings, even as I straighten my course for the one place to which my burden can be borne in safety: Gondolin. Turgon and I have ever held tight correspondence- I wonder if I serve him more directly than Manwë at times- but never have I taken unto him tidings more tangible, more grievous, more near to his heart than this. But even with my speed, there are several days between my present locale and my dreaded destination, and for now, I concern myself little with the future or the task yet at hand. There is grief; there is pain- that in my very talons bears testimony to it- but when is there not? Here is here; now is now; the wind is soft around me, and I fly.

Turgon

Steel. Maeglin often tells me how useful the alloy is: a metal that can be made to different strengths and forms and used for many different purposes. And steel is what I see when I look in the eyes of those gathered before me. Pure strength. Pure steel.

Almost the entirety of Ondolindë's forces is gathered here in the plaza named for me, the Square of the King. The largest square in this hidden city, it is the only place large enough for the entire army to gather, though there is space to spare today, as there always is at the time of parades. The morning guard is absent, keeping watch over the plains and Encircling Mountains. The eye of Morgoth ever searches for the Hidden City: we must be vigilant.

The missing guard does not diminish the forces of Gondolin who stand before me, alert, to attention. They paint an impressive portrait, the morning sun glinting off polished armour, the fantastic array of scarlet, sable, ivory, silver, gold, emerald, navy, azure, amber and indigo displayed on shields and cloaks, with the wide open plains, towering mountains and soaring eagles providing a resplendent background.

I feel a surge of emotion for these valiant people, who followed my family into exile across the wasteland of the Helcaraxë, or left behind their homes in Middle-earth and followed me into hiding. I am truly blessed to rule these people.

Those faces, all of those earnest, hardened faces, stare up at mine expectantly. Now is the part where I make a speech to them, something, anything to precede the imminent festivities, and I want to. Looking out over this beautiful display of Eru's Firstborn, the desire of my heart is to tell them that they are just that: a treasured blessing to their king. I open my lips to begin, but from my elevated balcony I see, flying leisurely from the north on a cold winter breeze, an eagle.

He makes good time for his apparently effortless ambulation, and it is soon clear to my eyes that this he is Thorondor, doubtless come bearing yet more grievous tidings of the tempestuous war that rages around our tranquil island in Beleriand's stormy sea. This has been a winter long and difficult, though we in Gondolin have been little affected by the woes outside these adamant white walls, and the Windlord's arrival has come to be a sign of dread to me and to these people I so dearly love.

Thorondor has still several miles to travel ere he reaches the palace, though, and I would, quite honestly, rather dismiss the people to their celebration and parade before his news- whatever it may be- can pervade the jovial occasion and cast its melancholy pall over the jubilation of the holiday. I clear my throat, averting my eyes with some reluctance from the Eagle before me, and begin to speak.

"Gondolindrim." All eyes are upon me, from the soldiers to the civilians, the advisors and the tiny elflings with silken flags grasped in star-shaped hands. "If Morgoth were here in my stead his black heart would quail at the sight of you valiant people."

I pause, and the people cheer, the elflings waving their little flags. A smile graces my lips. My peoples' joy is my joy. The crowd hushes, mothers coaxing their infants to be quiet. They do not quite succeed, though it bothers me not. In times such as these, the delight brought on by a child's laugh is more than welcome.

"Long and hard has this winter been. Snow and frost, though fun to frolic in -" A few appreciative laughs echo in the square as the image of their king frolicking through the snowdrifts graces the minds of the people. "- turn work in the fields to toil." Here, the farmers nod seriously. The winter has been hard for them. "Now, however, comes the spring; a time of new life; new growth; of full tables and full stomachs; of plenty. Gondolindrim, let us welcome the spring!"

A great cheer rises from the joyful crowd, and with a wave of my hand, I gesture for the parade to commence. The throng dissipates, clearing the streets for the horse-drawn floats and gaily-attired marchers and riders to snake their leisurely way down the wide white avenues. I smile; such celebration is only beneficial in dark times such as these.

The constant toil, incessant grinding at the stones of vigilance, of mining, of such food production as we perform in our secluded fashion, wear away at the hröa and fëa alike. These occasional respites from the daily labour serve not only as simply such: a rest- but as a reminder of why we work as we work and as motivation of sorts to do so to the best of our ability. They do not need some long, grand, and tedious oration from the lips of their king to recall these things to mind, only each other's company and the enjoyment of their toil's myriad fruits.

I lift my eyes from the fluid throng and the first line of the parade's musicians in their vibrant array to mark once more Thorondor's path. He is close enough now to meet my gaze; his intelligent golden eyes speak of the tragic tidings I have learned to anticipate from Manwë's vassal. I nod to him, pointing as nonchalantly as possible to the other side of the palace roof's encircling balcony: I would much prefer to meet with him away from the people's assuredly anxious gaze, and he takes the cue, further elevating himself so as to be positioned to fly above the palace. I sigh, and turn to make my way to the backside of the citadel. As I do, my keen eyes cannot help but notice the blood staining the Eagle's talons.

"Will you not be watching the parade, Father?" The voice belongs to the light of my life, my beloved daughter Idril. She stands beside my sister-son, Maeglin, and though at first glance owning completely different visages, there are moments when their shared ancestry is obvious. Now is one of those moments: identical expressions of confused curiosity observe me from one golden and one dark head.

I respond by raising my arm to point at the incoming eagle. Two pairs of eyes, one pair light, the other dark, move to examine the sky. Their eyes widen with comprehension. No words are necessary about my destination now. Expressions that were only moments ago confused have become grave. The gaiety brought on by the parade has vanished.

"We shall take your place in the parade, Sire, and ward off any questions." Maeglin answered my unspoken questions. I felt instantly grateful. Maeglin can perform the duties Idril cannot – he is as a son to me. A place by my side is one he has truly earned.

"Call an emergency council, my daughter. Whatever has happened in our once-fair Beleriand must be grave indeed. The Lord Thorondor only appears in times of great danger. The security of the city itself may have been compromised."

"Shall I summon any of your Captains, Father? Their advice may be necessary." Idril glanced out at the half-crowded square, looking for a captain whose presence would not be missed. I considered the notion. Another's presence would be appreciated to calm the reckless response my ancestry was famous for. I nodded in affirmative.

"I will bring Ecthelion, then, and Glorfindel, Father?" Her response takes shape as a question, in both tone and imploring eyes.

"Thank you, Celebrindal," I respond with a small smile as I- almost involuntarily- lightly caress her cheek. Idril returns the touch as she briefly covers my hand in hers. I cannot help but notice the feel of her fingers on my skin, so slender, so white, so soft and gingerly. She turns away from me and joins Maeglin at the door onto the balcony with swift steps. The last thing I see of the pair ere their disappearance into the palace is my sister-son's placing of a brotherly hand on her shoulder, guiding her down the stairs ahead of him.

I myself turn about now, and resume my walk to the other side of the balcony, noting with interest that Thorondor is no longer aloft. Before I realize it, a knot has formed in the pit of my stomach. Though the Eagle's tidings may be nothing more personal than word of yet another band of flames and attackers surging forth from Angband, what I have been told is purely elven intuition somehow warns me that this could be much worse.

Who, though, is not paranoid in times such as these? I try my utmost to dispel the feeling in the short period remaining of my jaunt to the other side. I focus on the music, the refractory trumpets, the eminent drums, the flutes' shrill, momentous notes that seem to rend pockets in the firmament itself, and I cannot help but smile. As Thorondor comes into my view, and the music's volume seems to diminish due to my distance from its jubilant sources, I roll my shoulders back, prepared to face with dignity and joy whatever the Windlord should say.


	2. Ecthelion and Idril

Ecthelion

I first noticed something was amiss in the King's Square. My Lord Turgon's face in the moments before his speech betrayed him; I know my Lord's face better than I know my own. Centuries of friendship on both sides of the Helcaraxë have gifted me with the ability to guess my Lord's thoughts to an uncanny degree of accuracy.

In those few moments, I see recognition and fear flash in those familiar grey eyes, and I instantly know something has happened. Yet Lord Turgon makes no move of panic; his desire to protect his people from fear is obvious to me. Once out of public view, however, I foresee the false merriment painted on his face to appease the crowd will disappear, and a council will be called at discuss whatever news my King has to share.

I know not for certain how he has gained this knowledge, though I can make several likely guesses. His family has long been known for the gift of foresight, a talent which often appears in times of great need. From his elevated position he may have seen one of Lord Manwë's eagles bearing tidings, or a member of the morning watch lighting the warning beacons upon the hill tops. For now, though, I have to be content with my guesswork, and keep my visage calm so as not to alert the people as to what may be amiss.

I let my eyes wander, seemingly aimlessly, towards my great friend Lord Glorfindel, who, as luck would have it, is looking my way. I make eye contact and reach up to twirl a strand of hair around my smallest finger; a seemingly innocent motion. To us, however, it is part of the secret code we developed as elflings to help with our mischief making. The motion's meaning is thus: trouble is incoming – act natural. As elflings, this was only used if we were about to be caught switching the salt and sugar, or similar acts of disobedience, but the code has been easily adapted for moments such as these. Glorfindel gives a discrete wink – message received.

He turns away from me, facing the nearby street with a suppressed smile upon his face as he speaks to a cousin standing next to him. From my position toward the back of the throng lining the crowded avenue, I hear the parade far more clearly than I see it. The jovial music had begun to waft its way throughout its conduit's route long before the marchers themselves had come down this way. Even now I can barely make out between the heads and shoulders of those in front of me their vibrant attire, gallant horses, and shining instruments.

I genuinely try to smile as I see the laughing faces of the children who run to gather the candy with which the performers have oh-so-carelessly littered the road. The sobering look on Turgon's face, however, lingers in the back of my mind, a token and an omen that simply refuse to dissipate; I know it is only a matter of time before I discover its cause. I lift my gaze to the vast, azure sky, probing the direction from whence had sprung Turgon's dismay for any lasting sign of its source, but there is nothing to be seen. The far-off beacons remain dark, and no trace of an incoming Eagle taints the horizon. Strange.

I am drawn from my reverie, however, by a voice in my ear and a hand being clapped on my shoulder from behind. I whirl around, and greeting my eyes is the concerned countenance of my Lord's daughter.

"Ecthelion," she is saying, anxiety colouring her voice yet blanching her cheeks, "my father requires your and Glorfindel's counsel in the palace immediately."

"Why?" I say, already moving through the crowd to collect Glorfindel from the street's edge.

Idril, following close behind me, replies in a low, barely audible tone, "Thorondor is here."

"Oh," is my only answer. That explains everything, from my Lord's expression to the absence of an eagle from my line of sight: Thorondor is notorious for bringing only the gravest of tidings to Ondolindë's folk, and he truly flies with the speed of the wind. He and his news must have already passed over the palace and out of view.

I offer my Lady my arm, and we move gracefully through the crowded streets, fake smiles painted upon our faces. The people, consumed with the gaiety brought on by the festivities, notice nothing out of place, offering smiles and bows before continuing to follow the main body of the parade.

We reach the street side quickly, Glorfindel's mane of flame bright hair attracting us like moths to a beacon. He is still in conversation with his cousin, a boy barely past manhood when he crossed The Ice. He has not inherited Glorfindel's over-bright hair, yet there is a sparkle in his eyes that the golden Lord shares. His eyes scan the crowds, searching for my face, and he dismissed the younger Lord as our eyes met.

When Lady Idril and I came into sight, his eyes widened. He knows the severity of the situation now, even if he knows not what has happened: Lady Idril would not accompany me to share the news if the information were less severe.

"What sorrows have befallen us, beloved friend and beautiful Lady?" Typical Glorfindel, even in the direst of situations his flowery language never departs. 'Tis my belief his language is the reason for his house – the flower-tongued lord of the Golden Flower.

"Thorondor." My brevity contrasts sharply with Glorfindel's panache.

"Ah. We have been summoned to grace our Lord's ears with our advice, I assume." Only the faint pallor of his cheeks betrays Glorfindel's anxiety. He knows as well as I do that news carried by Thorondor could mean our betrayal to the enemy.

"My father requires our presence. Come – Lord Maeglin shall deal with the formalities of the parade. His presence will smooth over our absence. We must hurry. Thorondor may have already delivered the news. We may have to prevent a response my family is famous for."

Glorfindel, despite his outer blaséity, clearly recognizes the anxiety in Idril's voice, and begins to slither through the crowd his way to the palace with a force that, coming from someone whose etiquette was even slightly less polished, would be called terribly rude. The people, however, seem honoured to let him pass, as his, "Pardon me, kind miss," and "Excuse me, forbearing sir," clear the way through the great body of onlookers.

Idril and I follow in his train, taking full advantage of his courtesy to increase our own speed. It is not a far walk to the palace's front doors at this rate, and we soon have reached that marble entryway. A guard at first gives Glorfindel a quizzical look, but when Idril emerges from the crowd behind him- yes, the sea of spectators floods even to the citadel's feet- he bows and opens the doors for the three of us.

Sunlight filters in from the occasional window along the white corridor at the end of which are the stairs leading to the balcony where my Lord and Thorondor are meeting. As we reach them and begin to climb, Glorfindel breaks our apprehensive silence, "Lady, do you have any clue as to what the cause of Thorondor's visit may be? It is assuredly not pleasant tidings, but have they been hinted at to you?"

Idril sighs. "No, Lord Glorfindel; as it stood when I went to retrieve the two of you, not even my father yet knew," is her taut reply.

From behind him, I see Glorfindel nod, and not another word is spoken until our climb is complete and the three of us emerge into the bright sunlight on the back side of the palace's battlement. To my left, not twelve feet away, stand Thorondor, golden feathers gleaming, and my lord- the first thing I notice about him is that his eyes are swimming with emotion.

His eyes, eyes that I have seen give glimpse to a plethora of emotions, from joy to pride to heart-wrenching grief, those clear, strong grey eyes, take in the three of us in a dazed fashion of which I have never seen. The only time when my Lord has been close to as astounded my grief, as I am now sure he is, was when he received news of the loss of his beloved, Elenwë. I know now that someone has died, someone so close to my Lord's heart that the pumping organ is screaming denial.

He stays where he stands; his knees buckle; Idril screamed. My reaction is instantaneous, sprinting across the balcony, Glorfindel at my side, to catch the elbow of my Lord and prevent his usually strong but now inexplicably weak body from collapsing. Glorfindel and I sling an arm each around our shoulders, lifting Lord Turgon to his feet, though once there he depends on us to remain so. His eyes are still blank, igniting the curl of fear that twisted its way into my gut the moment I saw his expression flicker on the balcony before he made his speech.

His head lolls, and finds my shoulder. Our eyes meet, my fearful ones staring into his blank ones. For a moment we simply look at each other, and I am aware of the silence on the balcony – Lady Idril, Lord Thorondor and Glorfindel are as silent as I am, all eyes locked upon the king's form, which, before our very eyes, begins to tremble, as tears worked their way down my Lord's cheeks.

The blank look on my Lord's face is gone, replaced by emotion so raw and painful it is hard to look at, let alone comprehend. His whole body trembles, one of his hands twists its way into the fabric of my mantle and tears pour down his face. There is desperation on his face, and his eyes are pleading. 'Tell me it isn't true', they seem to scream, 'please, say that it isn't true.'

"My Lord" I gasp, for I know not what else to say. It seems like all of us, four elves and one eagle, were balancing on a cliff edge. To know the truth is to fall, as Lord Thorondor and my king had, and ignorance is safety. I know that I need to know, to fall, but saying the words, sharing the news, would have Lord Turgon accepting the truth, the truth his eyes scream at me to deny, which would push him off the edge of his shocked grief, and into the chasm of undeniable knowledge that one of his beloved has passed on into a fate none of the Eldar should suffer.

It is Thorondor who speaks the words, the words that have my Lord's knees buckling again, though I am too shocked to catch him, my own mind reeling in denial.

"Fingolfin, High King of the Noldor in exile, has passed to the hallowed Halls of Mandos."

Idril

Until I find the tears streaming down my face, warm and sticky, clinging to the skin that blanched when first I heard the news, I do not realize I am crying. My entire existence is caught up in worry for one person, one weakened, shaken person: my father. I have never seen him like this before, even when Amil... I swallow hard, recalling myself to the present.

Thorondor is speaking once more, voice low, tone forced into steadiness. "I placed the hröa," he says, "upon the highest peak." He with his head indicates the jagged ridge of the Echoriath behind him and in front of us, before continuing hesitantly, "I and my people will take you there, if you wish to... pay your respects."

My father nods slowly, rising to his feet with new resolution. "I will go; I must," is his simple assertion.

"And you will not go alone," declares Glorfindel; he makes eye contact with Ecthelion, and I see that they have both decided to accompany my father. A sigh of relief escapes my lips. Left alone with his grief, there is no limit to what my father could do, but with those two I know he is in good (and, for the most part, competent) hands.

But somehow, I do not feel right in staying behind. I run a hand over my face, brushing the tears aside even as they continue to fall, clearing my throat to speak up. My voice is embarrassingly tearful as I murmur, "And I will go, also."

My father's reaction- though not typically to be considered strange- surprises me for the state he is in. "Celebrindal, no. You should not-"

But I have made my choice, and though Atar may not need me, the least I can do to honour my grandfather is make a visit to the site of his resting place. "You forget that I also have lost kin." My voice catches, and I find my eyes drawn toward the clear, cobalt sky as I gather my composure. "I am going."

Father's response is beaten back by a fresh wave of tears streaming down his face. Lord Ecthelion's reaction was instantaneous, tightening his arms around Father, providing him with the balance Father's body cannot give him. Father leans into him, his dark hair mixing, tangling even, with Ecthelion's, black on black, until it is impossible to tell each hair's home head.

Atarinyo had black hair...

I realise I am crying again, hands pressed to my mouth to repress the sobs that would only make my Father's grief worse. Tears fall, rolling over my cheeks and down my hands, my wrists, wetting the elaborately embroidered cuffs of my dress. Lords Glorfindel and Ecthelion, eyes focused on my grieving father, trying to contain tears of their own, notice not my own grief. For one moment, and one moment only, allow myself to succumb.

Memories fill my mind, with the shocking clarity of which Elves are famed for amongst mortals, of a man whom I loved dearly. A thousand times I sat upon his knee as he taught me the ways of the world; a hundred times I danced with him as I grew, from a tiny elfling to the woman I am now: all the dear memories filled my mind in that one moment pressing a spike of pain into my heart until I wished I could tear it from my chest to free myself from the sheer agony.

I raise my eyes, meeting those of the Lord Thorondor. His orbs are a startling gold, full of a compassion I wish I could wrap myself in and forget the world. Instead, I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing away my grief for a later time, when I can scream into my pillows and cry until no moisture is left within me. I raise my head again, feeling stronger, ready to be the rock my father needs. For a moment, I thought I saw a spark of approval in the great Eagle's eyes, before he lifted his feathered head to the heavens and letting lose an echoing screech: a signal to his brother eagles to carry us hence.

It seems a thousand years- and yet all too soon- until four more eagles arrive, wheeling once above the palace- I curse the thought that names them carrion- fowl- before landing on the balcony. I cannot help but wonder what the crowds of revelers below imagine their arrival's cause to be. Their merry music and festive cheers remain distinctly audible, profaning the silence of our mourning.

I realise that my eyes have been drawn to the deck's railing when an eagle interrupts my thoughts with, "My lady?" and a beckoning of the wing. I try my utmost to give him a weak smile, but the expression is soon fractured by another bout of tears rising behind my eyelids. I shut my eyes tightly for but a moment, then mount the Windlord as gracefully as I may, uncomfortably spreading my legs across his broad back.

"Hold on," says the eagle, and I lose no time in complying- hopefully not in a hard enough way as to rip out the gracious bird's feathers. We rise swiftly up from the palace and above the city, altitude subtly increasing. I cannot help but feel, though, that what is becoming a terrifying height for me is but the lowest level that Manwë's servants reach in their flight.

The wind blows in my face, shoving back my golden hair so that it streams out behind me. I avoid looking down, really, I do, but the one nauseating glimpse I take reveals my father's majestic city as little larger than a doll's house. There is so much stone, I note, and hardly any green. White buildings, white streets, white fountains, white walls whose only patches of different hue are the seven gates; even our renowned "Trees," Glingal and Belthil, are made of metal; the few scattered courtyards are surrounded by that same dull, almost oppressive, white rock.

So engrossed am I in my study of our beloved Ondolindë that I find myself leaning to my right to look upon her, and I, with a jolt, realize the danger of slipping and right myself immediately, facing forward, stoic, eyes fixed on the mountain of our destination until at last it rises to greet our airborne party and we land on a rocky summit.

I dismount without my usual grace: dismounting a creature of slick feathers is difficult enough without my head spinning from the flight and my ears ringing from sudden pops as we descend. I have never felt such a sensation before and dearly wish to never feel it again, though I must if I wish to fly home. As my feet touch the ground, I stagger, holding onto the eagle's wing to keep my balance. Though I was fortunate to stay on my feet, Lord Glorfindel was not: he tripped on his own feet and landed quite heavily on his face.

Father and Lord Ecthelion dismounted much more successfully than myself or Lord Glorfindel, managing to slip off the backs of Thorondor and his companion with relative ease. Lord Glorfindel leapt to his feet, brushing off gravel from his tunic and trying not to look too embarrassed. My lips twitch in humor, but they soon fall motionless again. The prospect of what I am about to see scares me, yet I would not turn away for the world: I must see my Atarinyo for if I do not, I shall never find peace.

The four of us approach Thorondor; his brothers take to the skies, guarding this place from the eyes of friend and foe alike. Today, this place is private. The Windlord's golden eyes have something akin to pain in the depths of those brilliant irises. He takes in our grieved visages and windswept appearances in silence. As I meet his stunning eyes, I feel the weight of knowledge gained over thousands of years reflected in his feathered face.

The High King's hröa lies on the mountain path. I should warn you, his hröa…" The great Eagle seems to shudder slightly, "The sight is not pleasant to behold."

"How did he… How did my father… How did…" My father seemed unable to voice his question, and I know his hesitance – to speak the words would make it the truth, which Father is still desperately trying to deny.

"How did he die?" finishes Thorondor quietly. "If you plan to see for yourself, I will suffice to say that he was broken." The great eagle bows his head, and with one great wing beckons those resolved enough to continue on to the peak to take the path.

My father turns around even as he sets foot on the narrow, curving walkway, and meets my eyes. I do not give him time or opportunity to speak the words of warning that he inevitably will, instead taking the dozen paces over to his side. I place a hand on his shoulder and nod gravely. Fortunately, he appears to understand, and we begin our ascent, the two lords close behind.

Our footsteps crunch conspicuously upon shards of rock and chunks of gravel. This path must be one of the passages hewn long ago during Gondolin's construction to make way for the stone being quarried for its buildings in the mountains without. It is long disused, but that, fortunately or otherwise, little hinders us from making the short climb up it.

The first thing about the peak I notice should be the astounding view, something I can appreciate now that my feet are on solid ground once more. Ondolindë is yet laid out below us to the south; to the west I see the sources of mighty Sirion; east lies the dark and deadly forest of Taur-nu-Fuin. North is a sight that only serves to recall my mind to our purpose in coming here: the three peaks of Thangorodrim, belching forth their abominable fumes.

But all of this only registers in a brief glance around me before my eyes are drawn to the center of this small promontory, where lies Atarinyo- or what remains of him. Broken, indeed, at the torso; the blood on his armour and his blue and silver cloak is both crimson and ebony, both his and his diabolical adversary's; a cry of horror escapes my lips.

I am not aware of the sudden weakness of my legs, nor the way the world rises sharply as I fall to my knees. My awareness is for Atarinyo only; my gaze locked on his broken hröa. As my eyes traverse his body, taking in every wound, my heart-strings tear, imagining what he must have been through; the pain he must have endured.

His hair is tangled and matted with his blood; his face – still drawn with the echo of pain – covered in scratches. His torso looks oddly flat, and I realize in a moment of pure horror that Atarinyo was crushed to death. My vision blurs and I am crying.

Arms that I failed to acknowledge when my legs failed me tighten, pulling me to Lord Glorfindel. I sob openly in his arms, clinging tightly to my kinsman. He rocks me and his warm presence is wonderfully reassuring. Glorfindel is like that: when he is near, comfort is not far behind. When he is there, I know the sun will always shine again.

What is not reassuring is his silence. For every grievance I have had, from the knee scrapes I gained as an elfling to the loss of my mother on The Ice, Glorfindel has always been the light in the darkness, his words inspiring hope. Yet today he speaks not. His face is white and shocked, his breathing erratic. I have never seen Glorfindel so; it scares me almost as much as Atarinyo's hröa.


	3. Glorfindel and Maeglin

Glorfindel

Here I stand, with all the world below me, with Idril wrapped in my arms, with my fingers running gingerly up and down her back- but what help can I lend her when my own eyes are filling with tears and I am forced into silence to keep them from being exposed? I hold her all the same, however, for many minutes that slowly pass, dragging on infinitely like a rough and clung-to rope will chafe the palms as it is gradually pulled out of grasp.

Moving my gaze from her gleaming golden hair and shaking shoulders, I survey our surroundings yet again. The King stares quietly at his father's body, merely standing between Ecthelion and myself with arms limp at his sides; his blank expression is hardly proof of internal composure. The notion strikes me that we cannot remain here forever, staring and mourning in disbelief at Fingolfin's final resting place. Something must be done for his burial: it will do neither to abandon this place as it stands nor to linger here long with no action.

With a glance back down at my kinswoman, I note that her sobs have been somewhat quelled, and that I no longer appear to be the only support keeping her on her feet. I run a hand through her loose hair once more, then turn to Turgon.

"My lord," My voice is little above a whisper, but it still merits his attention. "It seems fitting that we now take such measures as will honour your father even in death. Though I doubt not," And here my gaze strays to Thorondor, perched with folded wings on a boulder to Ecthelion's left. "that the good Windlords would keep ceaseless vigil on the Lord King's body, it is hardly proper to leave him lying here exposed." A wordless prayer hopes that Turgon will understand what I am implying we do.

At first I can glean no reaction from him, then a turning of the head, then a puzzled expression, as if he is slowly and circumspectly analyzing my words- finally, a nod. "Yes, Glorfindel," he says, tone hollow, "he deserves nothing less than the-" His stiff voice breaks its thin, plaster mask of apathy but quickly dons it once more. "-the tomb of a king."

Idril wordlessly leaves my arms, and I feel a rush of horror and pity as I realize what her task must be. In the four or so centuries since our arrival in the Hither Lands, traditions, unneeded in the deathless lands, have built themselves up as regarding how to properly prepare and honour the dead. Idril, as the only woman in our company, and indeed, the only female of close kinship, has the task of preparing the High King's body for burial. Under normal circumstances, she would be accompanied by all the departed's kinswomen. However, her mother and aunt, may the Valar bless their souls, reside in the halls of Mandos, and Lord Fingolfin's own wife and mother chose not to follow him into exile. Artanis alone remains of Idril's female kin, and she is barred from entering our hidden city, as is the rest of Middle-earth. Idril truly is alone.

"Celebrindal..." Lord Turgon reaches for his daughter, and she willingly folds into his embrace. "My daughter, you should not..."

She pulls back, and I hear the determination in her voice. "'Tis my duty, father, and one I would willingly perform." I almost smile. Though in temperament she is unlike any of the house of Finwë, when it comes to determination she is as stubborn as any Fëanorian brother.

I meet Ecthelion's eyes; together, we move back down the path to our landing place, searching for loose rocks and stones to form the King's cairn. After a moment, I hear Lord Turgon's footsteps as he begins to follow us.

The work is hard and strenuous. We are looking for a mixture of large rocks to make the body of the cairn, and smaller stones to fill the gaps and cracks. I soon find myself stripping of my outer tunic, and Ecthelion follows suit, tying the sleeves around his waist. We pile what we gather in the centre of the plateau, the work serving as the vent to our grief. If I pour enough of my emotion into the task before me, it will become easier to manage- yet still overwhelming. I can only begin to imagine what Idril is feeling, as she washes Fingolfin's remains; cleans his wounds; cleanses his tattled clothes and armour.

Finally, it seems we have enough. Now begins the task of hauling the rocks back up the mountain path one-by-one, and building a tomb fit for a king. Looking in the eyes of my weary king, though, I know not if he has the strength to see the acts through.

I approach him at a run even as I see him begin to stumble beneath a particularly large and awkward rock. Extending both arms, I bear the rock upward, and Turgon maintains his balance. Carried by four hands- two trembling- the stone gradually makes its precarious way toward the summit; even I am glad to be rid of the boulder as we make it the cairn's cornerstone.

As we position it, Ecthelion following close behind with a rock of his own, I spot Idril out of the corner of my eye. She slowly dips her snow-white mantle in a small pool that must have been birthed on the mountaintop by the rains of Stirring into spring. I avert my gaze, for I will do little good in the task if my vision is blurred by tears.

Time after time, rock after rock, the High King's crypt finally begins to take shape. Somewhere halfway through the final side, I make note of Thorondor's absence, but with a glance to the sky I see that such is not the case. In small, steady circles, the Windlord wheels far above this mountain's summit, a sentinel unasked but indispensable.

Standing back to admire- if such is the appropriate term- the fruit of our arduous labour, the cairn is as fair as a tomb may be, especially one built of a mountain's stray rubble, by hands unused to such jobs. The structure, rising perhaps three feet from the rocky ground, lacks but one thing: a roof. It cannot have such, however, without contents. Swallowing hard, I place a hand on Ecthelion's arm and indicate Idril, bent over the High King's body but making no further motion. He nods in response, and I make silent way to my cousin's side; a gentle spring breeze, fresh and clean with the promise of new life, mocks the intangible, though frighteningly present, pall of mourning over the future burial ground.

"Idril?" I murmur, bending down to lay a dusty hand on her shaking shoulder. "Is all prepared?"

"Aye." She takes a heavy breath, yet does not attempt to contain her grief. "He is ready."

Idril had done her job well: only one who knew – or suspected – exactly what happened to the High King would be able to distinguish his fatal wounds at first sight. He had been cleansed of the blood and dirt that clocked him; his hair freed of matted knots. Even his torso, which bore the marks of one who had been crushed to death, looked as though it had been inflated. The lacking presence of Idril's mantle explained what had been used to pad out the High King's shirt.

We stand.

Lord Turgon and Ecthelion are together only a few feet away, Turgon's eyes fixed upon his father's body. He seems beyond words, beyond tears even. He simply looks numb. Ecthelion is watching the King, his eyes carefully trained away from the corpse. I know him well enough to easily see the little motions of his body and face which betray his true emotions, his grief. Ecthelion has been friends with Turgon since he was an elfling, and with Fingolfin for almost as long. His grief is close to the surface, almost overwhelming him.

Celebrindal leaves my side for her father's, to give what comfort she can. He embraces her tightly, trying to block out the world. I beckon Ecthelion over, and motion towards the body.

"Tis best to move him while their eyes are averted, I think," I say quietly, continuing after Ecthelion's silent nod of consent. "I shall… I shall carry the torso."

And I do so. Though- even in its state of cleanliness- the sheer horror of the lifeless hroa's brokenness, turns my stomach, for the sake of the king and the princess and the honour of he whom this once housed, with what must be the aid of the Valar, I do so, and Ecthelion follows me.

In merely a few short steps and a gentle slipping of the body out of our arms, Fingolfin lies on the stony ground beneath the cairn. I meet Ecthelion's eyes, and our gazes dart in tandem from the royal twain to one another. A silent but unanimous decision is reached to leave them once again and collect the stones needed to cover the crypt.

Fortunately, we are able to find boulders large enough- gruelling though the bearing of them is- to cover the entire top of the cairn. (To fill it in with stones would be a task both long and heart-rending.) He takes an end of one, and I the other, and thus we carry four large rocks up to the summit and place them upon the cairn.

Finally, the work is complete; to other eyes, it may appear as merely an ugly memorandum of the days of Ondolindë's construction. I would a thousand times rather it be so than what it truly is. A haphazard pile of stones rejected by the city's builders is far fairer than a tomb. The tomb of a king.

Idril and Turgon seem to have broken their huddle, instead now standing side by side; as if at some imagined undertaker's command, as one they approach the cairn, kneel. Ecthelion and I hastily follow suit.

The king's brow touches the stone, and from my position nearest him I see that his tears fall freely once more, darkening the lowermost rocks of the crypt. "Farewell, my father." Oh, how his voice trembles! "Let no servant of him who slew you defile ever this: your resting place. Father, this ground is sacred."

As another fit of sobs takes both him and Idril, the whoosh of feathers is suddenly heard behind us; Ecthelion and I whirl around to see Thorondor and his counterparts landed once more upon the peak. I smile weakly; their timing must be a gift of their master.

Gently, I place a hand on the shoulder of both Idril and Turgon. "Lady, my lord?" I murmur, and tear-stained faces are turned in my direction. "Perhaps it is time we returned home."

"I suppose so," replies Idril thickly, and makes her way toward an Eagle, as Turgon does toward Thorondor and Ecthelion and I quickly replicate. Home. But yet another challenge awaits us already; somehow, the people must know.

Maeglin

Anor has taken leave of our celebration, yet still the King has not returned. Darkness comes swiftly to our walled city, hidden in the embrace of the towering mountains that guard us so well. The sun retreats behind the horizon of the Encircling Mountains hours before it leaves the sight of the rest of Beleriand, giving us shorter days preceding lengthy twilights and long nights.

Time becomes an illusion after living in Gondolin; daylight deceives us as a clock. I, who arrived in the city long after my neighbours set up house, have forgotten what it is like to rise with the sun and rest with the moon (indeed, I shall never be abed come the rising of the moon until Lord Glorfindel ceases in his quest to drag me to every beer hall this city owns). Men leave their beds as soon as the night sky fades from sable to midnight blue, and do not return to their wives until the end of twilight.

So, indeed, I do know the reasons we do not judge the passing time by the position of the sun in the sky yet I cannot help my regular, worried glances to the sky to try to judge how long the king has been gone, and when he might return. His presence has been sorely missed in the festivities. I have been asked many times by many faces, both common and lordly: Where is the reassuring presence of the King? Where is the beautiful face of the Lady? Where is Glorfindel to flirt with the maids and Ecthelion to keep the peace?

"My lord?"

A voice resonates from behind me, and I- not without pursing my lips in annoyance- stop in the tracks that will lead me out of this ruckus and whirl around. So close to solace, and yet so far; how long has my head been pounding from the incessant noise?

"Lord Egalmoth." I do not even pretend to be glad to see him. The honey-haired Noldo's vibrant garb has always annoyed me (He parades about in the rainbow of his house, but the array of hues strikes my mind as effeminate)- today, however, the waning sun's reflected rays cause the garments only to increase the throbbing within my skull.

"Do you know what has kept the King this long? Surely it must be of great import to call away not only him but Lady Idril and the Lords as well, for such a span... If I may ask, why did you not accompany them?"

"Because someone had to remain here and oversee the festivities," I hiss. "Why else would I stay behind?" Leave me alone, is the shout I wish I could utter.

"Then you know where they have gone? Such a long disappearance, it... has raised many questions among the people."

I set my jaw and force my lips into a spurious smile. _Remember who you are._ It will not do for Ondolindë's crown prince to speak harshly to one of the nobles. "This I know, but for all I wish I could say, I am not permitted to divulge their location. I apologize."

It is not quite a lie; Turgon clearly had no desire for me to spread the news of Thorondor's arrival. It sounds far better, though, to insinuate that I know more than that. _Remember who you are. _What a pathetic thing it would be for the king's sister-son to be outside the loop of his personal counsels.

"Alas!" replies Egalmoth, heaving a sigh that I hear laden with melodrama, "but I believe we will soon learn-" Here he suddenly lifts his gaze. "- unless those four Eagles are nothing but a coincidence."

As I did when his voice interrupted my musing, I whirl around, this time to gaze at the sky. Egalmoth's words are true; four Eagles are indeed soaring over the city, barely shadows against the dark sky. Nevertheless, the blessed sight of the Eldar allows the gathered Ӧndolindrim to clearly see Manwë's winged vassals. The volume surges as they all wonder aloud to themselves and each other at the presence of the Eagles.

"Could that be the Lady Idril?" Egalmoth, possessing eyesight an archer dreams of, is gazing at the second Eagle. "It could be Lord Glorfindel, I suppose, though he would probably insist on the Lady going before him. Propriety and all. Unless-"

"Lord Egalmoth, now is not the time for such matters." My tone is sharp with annoyance; can he not see we needed to act quickly? And, moreover, who could ever mistake boisterous Glorfindel with my graceful cousin? "We need to act quickly. Have whatever captains you can find take control of the celebration; inform them to keep the people calm and quell any rumours. Send runners to the other Lords: have them converge in the council chambers."

To my extreme irritation, Egalmoth does not instantly leave my side. Instead he draws himself up to his full height (several inches taller than my own – another reason to dislike him) and dares to ask me _who exactly I am to give him orders?_

"I am the King's nephew and therefore of such a rank that I may give orders to whom I please. And even if that was not the case, even you should be able to get it through your rainbow coloured skull that something very important has occurred! The security of our city may be compromised and you are just standing there questioning me!" My voice is deadly low, though I long to raise it. _Easy, easy_, I caution myself.

Fortunately, my words appear to take some effect, for despite his unbecoming scowl, Egalmoth turns on his heel and with but the words, "As you say," is off, apparently to fulfil my orders. Meanwhile, I find myself turning with a sigh down the shadowy corridor culminating in the King's hall of council, head still throbbing.

My booted feet slap the scuffed marble floor conspicuously, heralding my coming to anyone lurking down the hallway, but soon enough I realize I am alone as I discover the cavernous chamber dark but for the sunset's rays pouring in through its oblong windows. I pull out a chair- it is not presumption for which it is the one sure to be at the king's right hand, and seat myself.

The next five minutes I spend staring at the shadows on the wall, forming patterns and images and faces out of their eerie shapes, before the first lords begin to trickle in. Their murmured conversations continue as they enter the chamber, interrupted only by a nod or greeting to me or others who have already arrived.

Salgant has taken a seat next to me and sits prattling about some woman he met at the festival today, but I hear only enough of it to nod at the proper times. My head and heart are both now pounding as I sit waiting at the table for the arrival of Idril, along with Turgon and whatever the tidings may be.

It is probably ten minutes before all of the seats but four are filled, and the din of conversation has risen countless decibels more, before all speech is suddenly cut off. From my position near the table's head, which faces the door, silhouettes appear, and in slip Ecthelion, Glorfindel, Turgon, and lastly Idril, led by a servant.

The distance across the chamber may beguile me, but all four appear to have been weeping.


	4. Egalmoth and Idril

Egalmoth

As one, we stand; the grating sound of our chairs against the stone floor breaks the silence of the chamber, echoing off the cavernous ceiling. The noise is jarring; I see Legolas, famed for his eagle-like senses, cringing and reaching up to discretely rub his ears. Before us stand the four missing members of our aristocracy and one glance at their wary faces warns me that whatever news they carry shall not be well received.

An elfling could tell that the four have spilt tears this day, which grieves me more than the appearance of the eagles. Neither the King or Lady, nor Lords Ecthelion and Glorfindel, have cried in recent memory. Lord Turgon, in particular, has always held his emotions in check. I have not seen my Lord shed a tear for hundreds of years, not since his brother, the Lord Argon, died in the Battle of the Lammoth.

Lord Maeglin, presumptuous as ever, walks before the Lords and Lady and sweeps into an elaborate bow. "My Lord Turgon; my Lady Idril; my Lords Glorfindel and Ecthelion." He offers his arm to the Lady. She nods once, her fair face grave, and takes his arm. Maeglin guides the Lady to her seat, and the Lords seat themselves. To my extreme amusement, and to Maeglin's fury, Glorfindel chooses the chair Maeglin momentarily vacated. His expression – Valar almighty! He looks as if he is sucking on a lemon!

I stare down at my lap, suppressing the chuckle on my lips into nothing more than a pursed smile as Maeglin takes a seat across from me. I make a point not to look up at him; something tells me this is not the best time for a spontaneous fit of laughter. A throat's clearing suddenly resounds from the chair that once was Maeglin's, and I steel myself to glance up.

Glorfindel has stood- is Maeglin wondering why he needed to take a chair for only a few seconds of sitting?- and now begins to speak.

"My good lords of this fair realm of Gondolin, I come before you today bearing grave tidings. News such as this, alas! has not been heard within our seven gates since the death of Lady Aredhel. You have congregated here assuredly on account of..."

My own style of speech has been accused of unnecessary verbiage, but I am now reminded that I hold nothing over Lord Glorfindel in that respect. At times I cannot help but wonder if all these flourishes are natural, or if he uses them as a mask to cover something else. If he were not so courteous, his style of speaking alone would be enough to drive anyone away, it seems.

I am recalled to my surroundings by a collective gasp. I glance to left and right in hopes of procuring a repetition of whatever Glorfindel's "grave tidings" might have been, but every eye is fixed squarely on the King. A single, "My lord, I am so sorry," is heard, and after that, silence.

What have I missed? Of all the things to block out... The faces of my fellow Lords are almost comical in their frozen expressions of shock, of horror, of despair. Several begin to weep quietly. I mould my expression into a mask of shock; something tells me this is also not a good time to admit to not listening.

The king stands. He does not begin to try to hide his grief. It seeps out of him, infecting the room and us who gather here. I feel fear holding my heart in an icy grip. The king draws in a deep, shaky breath, a motion that scares me more than his expression. Centuries of service have gifted me with the privilege of understanding most emotions that flash below his carefully structured 'king-face', but I have never, never seen a physical reaction.

"My Captains," His eyes lock with each of ours in turn. "It is my greatest, greatest sorrow to confirm Lord Glorfindel's statement. My Father, your High-King, is dead."

My mind goes blank with shock. Dead? Dead? Lord Nolofinwë is dead? But how? Heads turn towards me; I must have spoken aloud.

"The answer to your question, Lord Egalmoth, is a tale that shall be sung of, long after our city walls shall last." Lord Turgon looks grieved, not insulted, so I believe I may assume I only spoke my last question aloud.

The king crosses the room, halting before one of the floor to ceiling windows to gaze at the city spread below his feet. The image he presents is awe inspiring. A tall, strong figure dressed majestically in white, rubies adorning his crown, the white city and great plains spread before his feet. He could be mistaken for a Vala. He turns; the image fractures. He is now nought but a grieving son crumbling under the weight of his responsibility. He takes a steadying breath, and recounts his father's final stand.

This time, I listen at rapt attention, absorbing each of my lord's words like the stone floor does the few stray tears escaping my eyes. I never knew the High King, but the tremor in Turgon's voice, seeming at any moment prepared to capsize his mask of composure, is enough to cause my weeping.

From the fey rage that egged Lord Fingolfin to the gates of Angband, to the sounding of his trumpet and challenge to Morgoth, to the Dark Lord's emergence and duel with the king, Turgon weaves a dreadful yarn that should belong only to the realm of phantasma. He minces no words- why should he?- and it is only as he closes that his words take the tone of a eulogy.

"My father is- was the noblest, most valiant son of our house, and his final deed, however rash it was, however deadly it proved, was but mighty evidence of his adamant _fëa. _He was strong, and whatever may be told, this last act was not one of madness but of honour.

"He attempted- and performed- the boldest attack ever dared by any in Beleriand, and for that, for his courage, for his righteous indignation, and for his life's tale of faithful leadership, he will be forever remembered." My lord inhales sharply and appears to swallow hard ere ending, "Thank you. You are dismissed."

For a few moments silence remains as the king makes toward the seat he rose from, but soon the murmur of conversation swells up, soft in reverence of the king and his fallen sire, yet somewhat frenzied as we rise from the table.

Scanning the crowd, my eyes light on Duilin, Lord of the House of the Swallow and a dear friend of mine; the grey feathers braided into his hair make him easy to find. Skirting a small cluster of men, I soon reach him.

"This is..." I trail off, for a moment speechless. "...unbelievable. Who could fathom he would be slain in such a way?"

Duilin's answering words are spoken even more quietly than mine. "The worst is that it could have so easily been prevented. He brought it upon himself." I raise my eyebrows; one speaks not ill of any dead, much less the High King. "I speak not treachery but truth; you know this, Egalmoth," he defends.

"True as it may be, it does not bode well to say such of the dead, especially when his son is in the room," I reply, my voice low and eyes on the King. Duilin too glances at our beloved monarch.

"Perhaps we should continue this conversation elsewhere, dear friend," he murmurs. Together we weave our way through the gathered lords. Though we have been given a dismissal, none have yet left the council chamber. The news delivered is too devastating for many to even consider moving. Rog still sits, anguish plastered across his face; Galdor's shoulder's shake in unsuppressed sobs; Legolas gazes at nothing, his lips trembling in silent whispers. _It cannot be._

Any conversation is muted; many simply do not speak, but gather around the Lady Idril and the Lords Glorfindel and Ecthelion, as the three recount their versions of the terrible tale. Duilin and I pass the Lady, and my heart sinks as she recounts the burial of our beloved High-King.

The passage beyond the doors is almost deserted; the two soldiers guarding the entrance are the only elves in sight. They are both of my House; even if I had not recognised them by name, their vivid uniforms label them as mine. I pause.

"Eiliantirith, greetings." I do not attempt to hide the sorrow in my voice, and I note the effect it has on him. He steels himself, as if preparing for a blow.

"My Lord Egalmoth, my Lord Duilin, how may I be of assistance?"

"Tell me, Eiliantirith, have you or Faencrist" – here I indicate the second guard – "heard any rumour of the subject discussed this eve by my fellow Lords?"

"My Lord I would never eavesdrop!" He sounds scandalised, and a similar expression appears on his fellow's face.

"I meant not to imply such a thing, dear guard! I wish to know the rumours spread by the people: what questions shall Lord Duilin and myself face as we leave this tower?"

Both guards instantly seem shamed at their misspoken outrage. "We apologise, my Lord," spoke Eiliantirith.

"The rumours are both wide-spread and widely interpreted," Faencrist steps forward, a frown upon his face. "Many believe our secret city is no longer secret; others say the northern kingdoms have fallen into shadow; most fear the end has come for our beloved Gonnólen."

This sort of reaction from the populace could only be expected; it seems that this city's residents ever draw conclusions pointing to discovery, our greatest terror. I sigh—but inhale sharply before replying, "Then those rumours' dispelling shall begin with you and me. It seems true that the Dagor Bragollach has caused the ruin of many realms about us, but despite the High King's demise, Hithlum still stands. Ondolindë is in no danger."

"This much I knew or could guess," Faencrist answers, "but, alas! Not all I have met this day seem as clearheaded on the matter as those of us here." He indicates the citadel behind him with a distinct nod.

I smile wryly and mimic his gesture. With a "thank-you" to both soldiers, I am off down the avenue at whose end Turgon's abode rests, Duilin at my side. In the periwinkle twilight of what is now dusk, the white structures blend together on either side of us. I study the sky; already the first stars begin to prick its darkening face. Turning my gaze to the mountain now crowned with a fresh crypt, I cannot help but be sobered anew.

Duilin and I walk in silence for several minutes, soft-shod feet making little sound on the marble pavement. I pick out the cracks in it, _one, two, three_…

"From your men's words, we have our work cut out for us when it comes to the people." Duilin startles my mind out of the street.

"Yes, yes," I say, gaining my bearings before continuing, "But I suppose that is what we always do: run interference between the King and his citizens, keep our people and Lord alike at peace."

"Which," Duilin responds, "is a very busy job."

Indeed, Duilin's words are proven true at that very moment, as we round a corner. A large group of citizens are gathered around a street lantern. In dark times we Eldar have always gathered to the light. The light of one of Fëanor's more practical inventions illuminates the pale faces below. Their worry contrasts dramatically to their embroidered tunics and silk dresses.

"My Lords!" The cry is given by a blacksmith whom I know by sight – all know all in our secluded society; everyone is linked to everyone else somehow. His sister owns a linen store only a few minutes from the King's square and her son is courting the eldest daughter of one of my captains. The blacksmith's name comes to me after a moment; he is Mirdan, one of Rog's people.

The crowd flock to us like moths to light. They are a mix; men and women, adults and elflings, lords and ladies, maids and manservants. We are surrounded by them both physically and vocally; their physical forms and their words circle around us.

"My Lords, what news?"

"Are the rumours true, Lords?"

"Are our greatest fears realised? Has our beloved city been located by the Dark Lord?"

Duilin holds up his hands in a peace gesture. "Calm, calm, dear citizens. Worry not; we have not been discovered, nor have the Northern Lands fallen to shadow." The people visibly relax; smiles are shared, elflings are hugged, men clap hands in relief.

"But then, my Lords, what would warrant the visit of the Eagles? They only contact us in the direst of situations!" Mirdan's question brings back the fear so recently banished. I share a glance with Duilin, a motion that does not go unnoticed.

"So there _is_ something," an elleth challenges.

"Aye, lady, there is something, and this something is serious. There will be an announcement made by the King when Arien reaches her peak in the heavens. Until then, my dear citizens, I must ask that you dispel the negative rumours circling our beloved city. We face no more danger than we face daily."

~oOo~

Idril

For the second time in the past two days, I find myself standing on the ivory balcony behind my father, overlooking a throng of our beloved people. The differences, however, between yesterday's crowd and today's, are vast beyond measure.

Where at this hour yesterday the people spoke, laughed, sang, shouted for joy, they are now gravely silent; where they danced, they now bow their heads and stand frozen in place; where they rejoiced, they now bitterly mourn.

My father's momentous words still echo off of the city's thick walls and close buildings, leave the people hushed and myself in quiet tears. Maeglin, standing beside me silent and emotionless as any stone, places a massaging hand of comfort on my shoulder; for once, I do not throw it off.

A thought suddenly flits across my consciousness, a thought that I take hold of, latching onto it as I regain my composure and brush my tears away: _For whom do the people mourn? _Certainly, many of them knew Atarinyo; knew of his stalwart heart, his ready compliments, but did they feel close to him? He is- _was_, after all, their king, and none of us have even laid eyes on him in centuries.

My father, though, my father is different. Rather than the great High King, over a massive people, admirable but impersonal, Atar is one whom they truly _know_—and one whom they truly love. To see him weep, mourn, grieve, sobers them just as much as the news of Atarinyo. The sea of bowed heads, wracked by the current of a few trembling shoulders, mourns for its Lord's anguish as much as for its fallen King.

After a few painful minutes of silence, my father dismisses the crowd—but they linger on, making no move to return to their homes as their Lord turns his black-robed back upon them and beckons myself, Maeglin, Glorfindel, and Ecthelion to follow him back inside the palace beneath the ornate arch hewn from white stone.

I swiftly duck out from under Maeglin's hand, following my father into the dim corridors of the citadel. This begins our city's second darkest epoch. So similar to the first, yet so different! The months and years after the sudden arrival and death of my poor aunt, the Lady Aredhel, were much the same as the months and years after Atarinyo's passing.

At first, it is as like a giant muffler envelopes the city; words, sentences, understanding tries and fails to fight their way through the air that seems as thick as wool. Silence carpets the great hallways of my father's palace. Laughter is rare and unnatural; shrilly pitched, it is hushed instantly. Children no longer dance in the streets. Music loses all tone. In this stage, this first step in the staircase of grief, time seems to run unevenly. In some moments, minutes feel like hours, and yet in others I stare out my window and only the setting sun alerts me to the fact I have lost an entire day, staring at the mountainside.

It takes only the smallest of actions to lift the muffler that surrounds us, to let the pain in. It is unbearable in the early days; trapped in a world where every object brings forth a memory; where my father tries to hold himself together for the sake of the city but cannot hide his red-rimmed eyes; where at every opportunity guilt assails me. Could I have done anything to prevent this? Could I have made the moments we shared any better for him? Was this in any conceivable way my fault? In the black of the night, when I am plagued with nightmares and dark thoughts, the answer to all these questions is a definitive '_yes_'. I should have been there: for council, for support, to talk him out of what impetuous decision took him to the gates of Angband. If only I had not been trapped inside these walls, if only I could leave, if only...

In the end, it is Father who breaks out from the seemingly endless cycle of pain and guilt. His pain turns to anger, his guilt to fury. Day after day I find him in the training yards, hacking at the practice dummies with blind fury. He is in state of mind enough for him to not challenge any soldier of the city; in his rage, he would cause serious damage to anyone who stood before him. I cannot bring myself to blame Father for his actions for I understand them; nay, I empathise with him. I too feel the fury burning inside me; I too wish I could take up arms and challenge the Black Lord who dared oppose Atarinyo. But I cannot. If I were to take up arms, to embrace the Finwion fire that blazes inside me, I would never find peace. I would become like my Aunt Aredhel, a hawk in a cage. However beautiful that cage might be, I would fight it, I would break free, and it would ruin me. To survive, I must stay diminished. I must remain as Idril.

Father's black fury lasts for weeks. We tiptoe around the city, too frightened to draw the attention of the towering black cloud among us. The guards wince as their armour clinks. The tension in the air is tangible; it seems as if the city itself holds its breath as it waits for Father's mood to change again. As one, we wait.

Father's next emotional change is just as violent, as sudden, as his previous, though made even more alarming by its effects upon him. The anger, the rage, the sheer presence... the three simply vanish. He becomes a shell of the man he was before. Alone he sits, for hours upon hours. He does not reject his role as king: all his duties are fulfilled; he stands in the presence chamber each day and passes judgement; every report is completed; and yet... He is gone to us. Empty eyes, toneless voice, emotionless delivery of speech to both the citizens and myself. I fear for him; for any chance we have of a recovery. What would rouse him from this depression?

The answer came to me as the problem did, two long years ago. The breaking dawn found me alone upon my balcony, pondering my tea. Today, as I had done every day for the past two years, I would go to my father; offer my aid; my council; my support. My gaze wondered from the cup to the sky, enjoying the kisses of the sun and the light wind. A year and a half ago, I would have fled the balcony, wrapped in grief. I would have argued with the part of me that wished to see the sun: Atarinyo would never greet the rising sun, so what right did I have to do so? Now, however, I could look without grief. Was I healing?

My musings were cut short as I focused on two forms, appearing on the horizon. Impossible, not again, surely? For before me, their backs to the sun, were two creatures I would recognise within an instant, in spite of the many leagues between us.

Two eagles soared towards the city, and, if my eyes were not mistaken, they bore riders.


	5. Huor and Rog

Huor

Wind once gentle on my face now threatens to rend the skin from it as the white marble of some immense citadel rushes up to greet my feathered mount. We land soon, in an apparently elvish kingdom whose name the Eagle deigned not even to tell us-not when he and his vassal came to the rescue of my brother and me, not at any point during our flight here.

Yes, our flight here: it was battle before, harsh and relentless; Hurin and I chased it far from Brethil, until the mists of night closed in around us in a country we did not know. We glanced down at the Orcish corpses surrounding us, then glanced up, and there were the Eagles.

We have travelled high, above clouds and the mountains that pierce them and about whose jagged tines they swirl. Little direction save _north _could we determine, until the Windlords took the dive that put the city now below us in view.

After the ring of mountains, the first thing I had seen had been white walls, layers upon layers of them-seven, I believe I counted, with gates hewn out of their mighty circles. These too we passed over, only to see it: a sprawling argent city amid a vale of green, green grass. That was when we began our current descent.

At this great speed we soon will be landed on a wide balcony, where several armoured sentinels stare up at our approach. Their fine mail and jeweled helms glimmer in the first light of day. The untainted stone draws nearer, nearer. _Shall we be shattered upon it? _

The Eagle commences a spiral downward that seems to last but moments, then sets its talons down so lightly on the structure that I scarcely perceive we must now disembark.

"What visitors bring you, Lord Thorondor?" A guard jogs up, bowing low before the Eagle as he makes his inquiry. He adds swiftly in an undertone, "You know that the king far from welcomes strangers."

My gaze darts toward my elder brother as my stomach begins to tie itself in knots. A genuine smile is on his lips, but his eyes-blue like mine-reveal concern, even fear. Yet still he slips off from his mount; I do likewise.

The distance between myself and the ground is greater than I had imagined; after hours of flight over towering heights, small distances are all the same. Three feet is indistinguishable from eight. I bend my knees on impact, but still stumble and have to cling to the Eagle – Thorondor, the guard called him – to prevent my falling. I flush. Here I am, fresh from my first battle, a man of thirteen (though my brother, the rascal, would call me child still) unable to withstand a fall. My pride smarts; what would the elves think of me?

However, when I do raise my eyes to meet those of the soldier before me, I find his expression to be one of curiosity, awe even. He looks as if he has never before set eyes upon a mortal.

"Húrin and Huor I bring you, sons of the House of Marach, grandsons of Hador Lórindol, whose name is not unknown here, guard of Gondolin. Unwise indeed would Turgon King be to withhold welcome, for in years past Ulmo has shown his will in this matter."

The awe on the guard's face intensifies, and he looks between us in wonder. To the surprise of both, he bows low to us-as to young lords-and speaks solemnly: "Greetings, my lords, and well met! It is an honour to be the first to welcome you to the Hidden Realm of Gondolin, city of Turgon the King. Thorondor speaks truly; the deeds of the House of Marach are remembered here in song and tale alike. I am Tiraglan of the House of the Harp and if it be permissible, I shall present you to the king."

My eyes wonder in surprise as instinct battles shock to control my immediate reaction; to be welcomed in such a way, as if I was a lord of great renown... Such honours I have never received, neither in my birth-land of Dor-Lómin nor my adoptive home of Brethil. I am a lord in training, nothing more.

If it were not for my brother, I would likely stand in silent surprise until the atmosphere became awkward, and I came to the realisation that I should reply to Tiraglan's welcome with words of my own, not dumb expressions. As it were, Hurin, more trained in the art of masking emotions and formal speaking, steps forward and responds in appropriate decorum.

"My thanks, and those of my brother, to you, Tiraglan of the Harp, for your kind greetings and words. Rumours of the strength and forbearance of the Hidden City has reached the ears of even the remotest of the free peoples of Beleriand, though distance and secrecy have prevented the world from knowing of your hospitable actions and courteous words; and it pleases me that the small deeds of our House are remembered by such great folk. I am Hurin; my brother is Huor; and we would be honoured to be presented to your king, though might I be so bold as to request water and linens? Our recent tryst with Orcs has left us an unsightly pair to present to a king."

Tiraglan bowed once more before replying, "Likewise, it pleases me that our city is held in high esteem by your people. If you would follow me, grandsons of Lórindol, I shall lead you to a chamber where you can wash briefly, though indeed a brief wash is all I can promise. The Lord Turgon will already be aware of your arrival; it would not do to tarry for long. Later, you shall glory in the baths of the city, but for now, let us depart! Farewell, Lord Thorondor, may your plumage never thin!"

At Tiraglan's beckoning, Hurin and I follow the sentinel toward a door engraved with designs of flowers and fountains, apparently leading into some turret of this-Lord Turgon's-citadel. At the solemn beating of thick feathers on the air, I turn to see the Eagles rising yet again into the cobalt sky, myself and Hurin left behind as just one of many tasks and duties-left behind in a strange kingdom of strangers. As we descend a set of stairs, in a stairwell lit by many windows, anxiety finds a place in the pit of my stomach.

I do not fear the elves-indeed, I fear nothing, but especially not a people whom I have always been told are valiant and trustworthy-so the worried ache must be due to excitement, curiosity. _Yes, that explains it._

In a matter of minutes, Hurin and I find ourselves in a small water-closet, standing at a long table over which hang two mirrors, elaborately embellished with borders of silver flowers. The doors, now the mirrors: _Decoration_, I observe, _must be how the elves spend their long years. _The gem-studded basins beneath the mirrors and the embroidered cloths resting in them but serve to prove my theory.

"Make haste; my lord receives few visitors, and such as he does, he wishes a swift audience with," says Tiraglan, leaving Hurin and I little time to admire the finery as we daub at splotches of dirt and dried blood on our arms and faces. _"Wash briefly_," indeed.

We are soon guided down a single capacious corridor; intricate mosaics line its white walls from floor to high ceiling, relating tales I do not ever recall having heard. At last the hall culminates in two immense mahogany doors-the only wood I have yet to find in the palace. A sentinel stands beside each, clad, I note, in a rainbow of glimmering hues.

At first glance, they appear somber, dignified and stately as Tiraglan, but as we closer approach them and they reach out to open the doors outward, I notice stifled smiles at play on their lips and laughter sparkling in their eyes. For some reason, the sight makes me unspeakably glad.

"Eiliantirith, Faencrist, two visitors for the Lord King," Tiraglan explains, indicating Hurin and myself. "Thorondor and a vassal carried them into the city but lately; kin of Marach are they, princes of Hador's house." He appears to make eye contact with each of them in turn. "I suggest you treat them with due dignity," he adds, almost scoldingly, to my ears.

"Yes, master," answers the guard on my left, that smile still flirting with his mouth; he and his companion direct their attentions toward my brother and me. "Enter, my lords, into the fair sanctuary of our Lord Turgon. May the Valar bless this your auspicious meeting." He grins, and both men bow, motioning us into what must be the throne room.

"Eiliantirith-" I catch the quiet remark as the doors swing silently shut behind us. "-that was an _exquisite _impersonation of Lord Glorfindel." Their laughter ushers us into the king's hall.

Before I can contemplate who this Lord Glorfindel might be, or why the guards would want to impersonate him, I take in the sight that was the Great Hall of Gondolin, and all questions are wiped from my mind. Valar Almighty…

The hall stretches on for a distance immeasurable, seemingly almost endless, perhaps one hundred yards from end to end. Marching along that distance, at regular intervals, are columns of a scale of which I have never dreamed, let alone hoped to see. Up they go, yards upon yards, until, at a height of about forty yards, they branch in twain, then again, and again, and again, to reach the cavernous ceiling. They are carved, these spires, and the realization strikes me: they are _trees_; trees that mimic the grace and glory of the trees of legend, Telperion and Laurelin; carved of white stone they soar straight to the heavens, their many branches supporting the arched ceiling, which must be sixty yards above ground. The ceiling in itself is a marvel; arched and graceful, it seems to be one long river of stone, the joints between the individual blocks carved cunningly to create such an illusion; it looks as if it were carved from one single, vast stone, which flows uninterrupted until-

My mouth drops open as my wonder increases, for there, in the exact center of the awe-inspiring ceiling, is a dome. Twenty yards in diameter, it rises above the ceiling. I am such a distance away that I cannot judge the height it reaches; though by the scale of this monumentous building I judge it will be no less than twenty yards. There must be windows too, hidden somewhere in the artful stonework of the dome, for light pierces through the air. Rays of sunlight, passing through small openings, all meet in one spot: the exact center of the circumference of the rim of the dome; sending rays of light that both illuminate the hall and highlight their destinations. One such ray falls towards the great doors; as such, it illuminates my brother and I, miniscule against the immense size of this hall. Another ray travels across the endless distance in the opposite direction and falls upon the gathered crowd that stood there, below a huge window of a coloured, transparent material – glass, I think with wonder; it's coloured glass.

For a moment, the world is silent, still. Our mortal eyes cannot clearly see the figures we shall soon meet, though their elven eyes should easily perceive us across the distance. I agree with my brother's earlier sentiment; we are a sorry sight to present to the king and his peerage. My fingernail scrapes a patch of dirt on my sleeve; I instantly regret it as flecks of dirt mar the perfect white of the marble floor.

"You are of the House of Marach; remember who you are," my brother whispers into my ear, before striding forward. I hurry to match my pace to his; together we start across the distance. Our footsteps echo around us, vanishing into the cavernous depths; I wonder if the king and his company will hear them. It takes an age to cross the hall. While my brother keeps his gaze ahead, I glance around us, marvelling at the wonders of this hall. It is wide, almost fifty yards across, with many more rows of tree-columns holding the ceilings aloft.

When we pass under the dome in the ceiling, I almost cry out in astonishment and awe; I was correct in my earlier assumption. The dome does not rise twenty yards, nor twenty-five, but thirty glorious yards. The walls of the dome are painted with murals of outstanding beauty; depicting the Valar, royals, figures of legend. I could spend an hour, a day, a week just looking at them.

The gathered crowd are clearly visible now; individual faces stare now on me. They are not a crowd, I realise, but stand carefully in position; the space each person occupies is a political statement. Lesser nobles stand on level with my brother and I, open curiosity in their eyes. Behind them is a raised dais, upon which stand many lords, arrayed in fine clothes. In the centre, flanked by two lower chairs, is a throne. The figure sitting upon it stands: the king of the hidden realm. No other could emit such a presence. His robes are white, flowing from his shoulders to pool around his feet. Around his waist is a belt of gold; upon his head sits a crown embedded with rubies, in his hand he holds a golden sceptre. Turgon, King of Gondolin.

"Who are you, sons of Men, that venture into my realm beyond thought?" The King's voice is level-yet not so much even as flat. His ivory features betray no emotion. The searching light of his eyes-such a Light-falls on me, and for a second's least part, my gaze meets his.

_I've seen you before_. No, no- I have yet to truly see you... No. But I know something about you. _The King is important; his eyes are like stars. _It strikes me with the force of a blow.

Yet the thoughts dissipate even as they came; Hurin's strong, clear voice replaces them as my focus of consciousness.

"Hurin am I, and this is my brother, Huor, my lord," announces my brother. "We are the sons of Galdor, son of Hador, of the house of Marach. The Lord Thorondor delivered us from the wilderness into your realm."

Turgon appears to muse on this. Something like anxiety grips me in his silence. What will he make of us, two mortals dropped into the heart of his hidden kingdom? Will we be slain, made prisoners? I glance at the floor, heart throbbing.

"That is well," replies the king, in that same lifeless tone, "for I have reason to look kindly on the Men of your house. Yet the law of this land is that all who enter shall not be permitted to leave, lest our location be betrayed; therefore, I welcome you as guests in my halls."

"Thank you, my lord." Heads bowed, Hurin and I simultaneously exhale our gratitude. Questions formulate somewhere in the back of my mind: what affinity has this lord of the Eldar for our house? Most importantly: why? Yet, for the moment, relief overshadows them.

"You shall dwell in my halls for the days that remain to you," Turgon concludes. _The rest of our lives? _I scarcely comprehend his words of parting, referencing quarters and a meal with himself and the court.

_Surely not, surely not_. The firm denial resonates incessantly through my mind as Tiraglan passes Hurin and I over to an Elf who must serve as a butler. He guides us again through the white, white halls. _Unending. All the same. They close in around me. _I could easily lose myself in these infernal corridors. Yet I fear I shall learn them all too well ere I depart the Circles of this World.

A shiver runs painfully down my spine. The hallways blur together. I glance to Hurin and note tears in his sapphire eyes. "What will Haldir... Mother and Father... think became of us?" I whisper, praying the echoes keep my words from the ears of our guide.

"We are dead to them." I have never heard Hurin sound so bitter.

-o0o-

Rog

The mortal pair depart with one of Lord Turgon's men, back to the great doors and disappearing away down the main thoroughfare. They walk differently; before, they held themselves with pride, though not without a little hesitance. The young one could not contain his wonder at our marvelous hall and his brother's eyes shone with awe – well disguised awe, but awe none the less. Now, their shoulders droop. The elder one again hides hid horror well, but his brother does not. The young one's face crumples like metal under pressure.

The moment the great doors close, Turgon stands. We all watch silently, much as we have done for the past two years. So much depends on this one elf, this damaged elf. He reminds me of a broken hinge; the fate of Gondolin swings on him but we do not know if he can hold to such pressure. The complication that is the two mortals has added yet more strain to the mechanism.

"The council chambers," he instructs emotionlessly, stepping off the dais and turning left, heading to the western wall. Here, hidden well by my crafty masons, lies a secret door, behind which is a hidden stair, leading down to the council chambers which are situated a floor below us. The palace, and indeed much of the city, is laced with such passageways. Known only to the Lords, the Lady Idril (who indeed commissioned many herself) and trusted vassals, they provide an exit should our city be attacked. They lead to the North gate; from there, we must climb the mountainsides.

As one, we follow our lord. My masons had the foresight to build the passage as wide as can still be called discrete; the Lady Idril and Lord Glorfindel, her with flowing skirts, he with robes of extreme panache, could hardly fit through otherwise.

We arrange ourselves around the council table in silence, waiting for Lord Turgon to speak. He stares out over the city, his expression blank. Finally – "Your thoughts, My Lords?"

Lord Maeglin speaks first, to the annoyance of some. He is often seen as arrogant and prideful by others; his youth contrasts with the high regard of the King. I however do not dislike the young smith. He is talented indeed with metals and gemstones; I would wish to tutor him if he were a member of my house.

"Two sons of the second-born, of the House of Marach, brought to our city by eagles! Carried by the Lord Thorondor, no less! Whoever they be, for whatever purpose they come, the Valar smile on them. Lord Thorondor would not bear them were they men of ill-deed or fake valour."

"Indeed, Lord Maeglin," Salgant replies, "though I counsel that we should not receive them so joyfully, nor turn our eyes from the risk they pose. We do not know the circumstances that lead to the eagles bringing them hence! They fought in battle, that itself is clear by their appearance; would I go too far to suggest that they might have been seen by their foes? That those foes might know where our city lies?" He glances around the table, reminding us all of the constant fear of discovery.

"Fought in battle, Lord Salgant?" I speak up, and all eyes turn to me. "They seem overly young to have seen battle, especially the child Huor."

"What do you suggest is the cause for the blood on their clothes? Their wounds? Their armor? Or do you suggest that their attire is the norm for the men of Brethil?" His reply is scathing, which is nothing out of the norm. Salgant has never spoken respectfully to me; his scorn over my past is obvious to all.

"I suggest that we do not know enough about these too youths to pass judgment. We cannot come to any worthwhile decision while the facts are obscure to us. I propose inviting them to a council on the morrow. We should hear their tale, not create one from the bare facts we know," I propose-gratefully-to several nods and verbal affirmations.

"And perhaps, with the correct questions, we shall learn more even as they dine with us," Maeglin puts in. His sharp eyes glisten, and his lips writhe into a singular smile. What is passing through his mind, I cannot fathom-but I trust him, nonetheless. "My Lord Uncle," he elaborates, turning amicably toward the King, "can we expect the meal at its usual hour?"

"Yes," replies Turgon, indicating now those of us who do not reside in the citadel. "Lords, to stay and eat or to return home is of your choosing. All will be laid out at council on the morrow; there is no fear of being left outside our informed circle." His voice reminds me of weary hammer-strokes on some weathered piece of stone, growing fainter and fainter. "For now," he continues, "you are dismissed."

I rise slowly from my seat, turning to ivory-haired Penlod who stands to my left and a head above me. "Will you stay?" I inquire.

"I think not," is the answer. "The Lady expects me for dinner, so I suppose I will learn what there is to know at the meeting tomorrow. But as for yourself...?"

"I believe I shall stay; my curiosity has been piqued, after all. But if a lady were wanting me home, I would be constrained to your same choice, I am sure." I raise an eyebrow and allow myself to smile.

Penlod emits a short laugh. "Good evening then, Rog. Until tomorrow's council?"

"Until then," I answer as he turns away. Glancing about the capacious room, I note that all the court has risen by now and mill about, some members attempting, with calls of "Namarie!" to depart, while others, like myself, seem firmly planted here in the palace.

Idril and the King, I notice, leave us lords to conversation, which I find myself in for the next half-hour or so. Ecthelion, Glorfindel, Salgant, Duilin, Egalmoth, and I are the ones to linger; Galdor, like Penlod, must have more pressing affairs elsewhere-or at least an impatient wife.

Speculations whirl through the air: "Chosen of Ulmo?"; "It seems terribly suspicious"; "Surely Thorondor's vassals would bring us nothing harmful?"; "Not knowingly..."; "Let us not pass judgment"; "But did you see their reactions to the King's law?"; "Too clearly"... But soon enough a pair of maidservants arrive, bidding us come now to the hall of feast.

Our chatter dwindles to whispers, then to silence, as we make our swift way to the hall. These corridors echo far too well for us to conceal our speech. Yet we soon find ourselves in the banquet chamber, a massive room nearly as cavernous as the throne-hall itself. Though upheld to the same great heights by similar tree-etched columns, this chamber is more practical, narrower, less elaborately decorated. The only visible art is vibrant glass mosaics that line the sprawling walls in the shapes of flaming suns, the heraldry of my Lord and his father.

A long, marble table, fixed by design to the floor, bifurcates the majority of the hall's length, but for now only one end of it is set. The King sits at the head, facing our entrance, with his two guests next to one another on his left. Lady Idril is, as ever, on his right; her eyes seem fixed on the younger of the two mortals, as if she should say something but does not.

I soon seat myself next to Maeglin (who has taken in his own turn the open chair next to Idril). I glance across a platter of roast meat to make eye contact with the elder of the mortals; he makes a study of the burn-scars on my hands.

"Did you tell my Lord King your name is Hurin?" My question tears his eyes from the maroon splotches.

"I did, lord," he replies cordially, "though I have not yet made _your_ acquaintance..."

"I am Rog," I answer, as servants place empty plates before us, "of the House of the Hammer."

"That's an interesting name," Huor pipes up, seeming completely unaware of the social faux pas he is committing; his brother, however, and all others in earshot – the entire delegation at the table, in fact – notice. Hurin's eyes squeeze shut; his face becomes one of mingled horror and extreme exasperation; he silently utters a short phrase. I read from his lips: _'Why, for the love Eru, why?' _

The soft sound of moving air is heard as the table sucks in a shocked breath, wondering how I will react. My reactions to questions about my past – however innocent the intent may be, however distantly the subjects are related – are varied, ranging from testy to explosive. I dislike the subject.

However, these are guests, Huor is but a child, and besides, he amuses me. "It is my epessë, Lord Huor, my honorific title." If possible, Huor looks even more curious, and opens his mouth, no doubt in order to let a multitude of questions pour out. At this point, however, Hurin has clearly had enough. He places his hand upon his brother's forearm and gives a light squeeze, not a harsh amount of pressure, but enough to gain Huor's attention. He takes one look at his brother's displeased face, flushes crimson, and falls silent.

The table releases its held breath; the flow of conversation, which had ebbed for a few moments, resumes. Ecthelion and Salgant fall into a discussion on the use of modal tonality and dissonance in the composition of laments; Idril coaxes the pink-faced Huor into a conversation regarding his family and life in the woodlands of Brethil; Maeglin, denied his cousin's company, debates the use of intricate decoration in armour with Glorfindel, who, as per usual, remains convinced that extensive ornamentation on a soldier's breastplate is almost as important as the breastplate itself.

King Turgon is as ever, blank-faced and distant from the company. Unusually though, his expression flickers. His lips, usually pressed tight together, make occasional movements. It takes me a long moment to come to the realization that Turgon is smiling; or, at least, coming as close to the act as he has in two years.

I probe Hurin into conversation once more as unspoken custom permits us to begin filling our plates. "I suppose the full story of your coming here will come tomorrow at the King's council..."

The young _adan_ smiles-and takes the bait. "But would I tell you more about it now, my lord?" My nod and motion to continue must signal a _yes_. "It would be an honour." He takes a wooden bowl of bread from Lord Glorfindel, who is seated next to him, and selects a roll, passing the container to his brother-who takes two.

"Would you care for mead, Lord Hurin?" Glorfindel proffers a sizable flagon in swift succession of the bread.

"No, thank you, lord." He casts a nigh-amused glance toward his younger brother and indicates Huor. "And I speak for the both of us," he adds in a conspiratorial undertone.

Glorfindel laughs, a sound as bright as the golden flower of his House. "And in that case I must commend your prudence." He sets the vessel down where it rested between him and myself. I, as he has, indulge.

The containers of food have soon orbited the table in a neat cycle of _take-your-fill-pass-to-the-right_; lifting my fork, I pick up the dropped threads of Hurin's and my conversation. I remain intent on hearing the mortals' full tale, and besides, I would rather the topic stay far from inquiries as to my own history.

"You were just beginning to describe your and brother's journey here, were you not?" I say, taking a bite of salad even as I notice Hurin is already finishing his bread. Perhaps conversation is not the finest avenue; he's hungry. Even if the boy took some refreshment after his meeting with Turgon, this must be the first true meal he has had in days.

He swallows. "So I was, lord. We have- _had_ been staying with our uncle, Haldir, in Brethil, and attacks from the Enemy were growing increasingly frequent. Haldir was losing many soldiers-and thus ground, and somehow Huor and I persuaded him to let us accompany a force of men going to meet a party of Orcs, but they found-"

"Where, exactly, was it that your uncle's men were planning to join these _glamhoth _in battle?" Glorfindel's apple stops halfway to his mouth.

"Near the Vale of Sirion," replies Huor, sounding rather proud to be able to answer. From here he takes up the account.

"We planned to pursue the orcs until they reached the Vale. The valley there is wide and steep; the river below flows quick and deeply. The orcs would have no easy escape. Rather than dare the treacherous valley they decided to face us in battle, which progressed as we had planned.

"Our archers were positioned in the trees; their volleys cut down a large number of the legion." Huor's fingers – thicker and shorter than those belonging to the Eldar – stab through the air like the arrows he described, almost embedding themselves in the butter dish in his enthusiasm.

"The me and Hurin -" ("Hurin and I", hisses Lord Hurin) "– and the other men charged from where we had been waiting in the shadows of the trees. One group of men charged from the left of the orcs, the other from the right, and the orcs were trapped between us, like a piece of metal between a hammer and an anvil. It was glorious! The men tried to keep Hurin and I -"

He shoots a meaningful look at Hurin, which I believe I correctly translates into Sindarin as '_I do know my grammar, thank you very much_' "- out of the battle as much as possible, as many of our soldiers think us too young to fight, though I do believe we proved them mistaken. I slew two orcs."

Here, Huor glances around the table, as if looking for expressions of awe. His first two kills must be – in his mind – a huge accomplishment.

"Perhaps we should name you Huor Twice-Kill for your achievement," the Lady Idril interposes.

I would think her serious if not for the twitch of her lips. My approval of the young human increases; like her father, the Lady Idril has ceased smiling completely in the months after Lord Fingolfin's death. Perhaps the wisdom of Lord Thorondor has brought these mortals to our city to aid the healing of our beloved royals; the light-heartedness of young Huor especially seems to make the shroud of grief that covers this city dissipate.

Hurin, now slicing his roasted goose in slow, practiced movements, picks up the tale from where Huor has paused. "However, the tide of the battle soon changed. The proximity to the cliff edge had whipped the beasts into a panicked frenzy and they fought with energy and vigour which we had not foreseen. By this point, the fighting covered a large area; Huor and I were separated from our caretakers by a group of orcs and we stood alone. We did not fear for our lives, however, for we had been briefed many times on how we should behave if such an occasion arose."

Hurin pauses momentarily to swallow another mouthful of meat. The interruption to the tale has us all lean forwards involuntarily towards him. He continues, "We began to make our way down the side of the valley, for in truth, the Vales are not as steep as they seem from above, nor as impassable. The process took several hours, as the distance was great and the terrain was both unfamiliar and dangerous; a fall could leave a man with a broken leg, or worse. Once we reached the valley floor, our path turned southwards. Our goal was to journey several leagues south, before turning west and aiming for Amon Obel, where we would be reunited with our company."

"What might Amon Obel be, Lord Hurin?" Egalmoth questions.

"The only distinguishable landmark in Brethil; a hill that rises higher than the surrounding ground by many hundreds of feet; whereupon lies our principal settlement," Hurin replies, with a nod to Egalmoth, before continuing.

"However, after no more than half a league, a mist developed in the valley. Such a mist I have never seen, nor do I expect to see again. Thick and oppressing, it made visibility perhaps a foot on either side. We pressed on, though, wanting to put as much distance between ourselves and the battle as possible, hoping that in time the fog would pass and we would be able to discover our whereabouts. We journeyed for what seemed like days; the mist let through dim light that varied little: I could tell you not for how long we travelled.

"Several times we came close to losing our footing and causing ourselves harm. Finally, the mist started to dissipate, and our hopes began to rise. They soon fell when we realised our surroundings; instead of travelling south, as I had assumed, we had been travelling north! We were leagues out of our way, Brethil only a green blur in the distance, and mountains we had seen from afar now rising before us."

Glorfindel places the core of his apple back on his plate. I cast a swift glance toward Turgon; he tamely sips a glass of wine, forward-leaning posture suggesting engagement with the tale. "Continue, please," is his simple command.

Huor clears his throat. "We had scarcely been there long when at once a pair of golden Eagles emerged from the fog. I do not know what we would have done had they not arrived! They promised to take us safety; we knew they were servants of Manwe, and we were in such a desperate plight, so we boarded their backs.

"It was a long flight," he goes on, "nearly two days, and we saw nothing of our path save a few mountaintops stretching up to prick the clouds and mists. We were set down just today on the balcony of this palace... and that is the end of it."

A ruminative silence briefly reigns across the table, Huor's last words bouncing poignantly off the hall's cavernous ceiling. A strange tale is the mortals', to be sure- unbelievable, if not for the evidence of the Windlords.

"Thus your arrival here was entirely by chance?" Salgant speaks up from further down the table, his tone dripping with the spiced wine of skepticism (and no scant amount of literal wine, either).

Turgon speaks ere Hurin or Huor can respond. "So it would seem." It is more of a musing than an answer. "Yet a pleasant chance, I deem it, for us all." He pauses a moment, yet neither _adan_ makes to reply. "I thank you for your tale. From what I have heard, it will not be difficult for either of you to find a place in this realm."

"Thank you, lord." Hurin appears to swallow, suppressing some other, less courteous response.

"Thank you," Huor echoes him. Memory hearkens back to the mortals' expressions in the throne room; the only thing they see is an eternity spent within these confines. _Yet do not we all?_

The dinner lasts little longer, at least for me. I take my night's leave with Ecthelion, when the king and his young guests do, leaving the other lords to the drinking and revelry never far from our gatherings together. Weaving my way through the white halls, lit orange by flickering lamps mounted high upon them, I emerge into the night and turn toward home.


End file.
